


Angels

by PinkRangerV



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Angels, Angst, Family, Gen, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-13 02:24:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2133543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkRangerV/pseuds/PinkRangerV
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bobby found two fallen angels under his porch one night...and then they saved the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Angels

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr Prompt: (http://angelicdiaspora.tumblr.com/post/65193401810/sockmonkeyrenegade-i-think-one-of-my-favourite) “I think one of my favourite things ever is the fact that before she watched Supernatural, my girlfriend literally thought that the plot was that two angels had fallen from heaven as children, and were found by an old drunk named Bobby who called them Sam and Dean, and chose the name “Winchester” after his favourite gun, then raised them to hunt monsters. | Someone get on this, it sounds like a perfect reverse verse fic.”

This was the beginning:

 

When Bobby Singer heard the thumping under his porch, he assumed it was a raccoon. Damn little shits kept eating his trash. He grabbed his gun and a flashlight and stomped out, grumbling.

 

He looked under his porch.

 

It definitely wasn’t a raccoon. At first he thought it was one little boy, then a slightly blonder head of hair popped out and Bobby realized it was two, curled together for warmth and filthy.

 

A few unsavory things crossed his mind before he realized kids probably didn’t need to hear that sort of language.

 

“Well, if you ain’t the strangest little raccoons I’ve ever seen.” Bobby settled on saying. He set the gun and flashlight aside and held out a hand. “Bobby Singer. You wanna come on outta there, boys?”

 

The boys glanced at each other, then cowered away.

 

Bobby felt a surge of rage at whatever _utter filth_ had put this kind of fear into them, but kept his face calm. “Well, ain’t that a shame. I’ve got some pie I need help finishing, but I’m gettin’ too old to be crawling under there with you two.”

 

The boys looked at each other before the bigger one spoke. “What is ‘pie’?”

 

Now what kind of parent didn’t even give their kids something sweet once in a while? “You don’t know pie? Well, c’mon out here and lemme show you, then.” The boys considered, then edged out, smaller following bigger. “What’s your names, anyway?”

 

The boys glanced at each other. “We do not have human names.” The smaller one said.

 

The elder looked up at Bobby, almost defiant. “We are angels of the Lord.”

 

***

 

Well, who the hell knew. Turned out Heaven and Hell were real.

 

Bobby took a look at the two boys fast asleep on his couch. Fallen angels, sure--but young’uns, too. Curled up against each other like filthy puppies, and Bobby made a mental note to give ‘em a bath before bed--

 

What was he thinking? He was no father. He was just the town drunk.

 

(If his own father’s sins replayed in his mind, it was his business and…)

 

(...no. It was theirs, because if Bobby turned into his father it would be on their shoulders.)

 

(Those shoulders were too small for that.)

 

(But any other Hunter would kill them. Normal foster parents wouldn’t be able to help them.)

 

They were awake and staring at him.

 

 _...Damnit, Bobby_ , he swore at himself before saying, “Well, I guess I oughta call ya _something_. ‘Singer’ ain’t a favorite ‘round these parts.”

 

The boys glanced at each other and shrugged. “We hit our heads and we don’t remember our names.” The little one said, perfectly rehearsed.

 

“That’s for _other_ humans. We _already_ told Bobby.” The elder said, perfectly exasperated.

 

Bobby felt his lips twitch up.

 

In the end they decided on Sam and Dean Winchester. And the guest room was filthy, so Bobby put them in his own room when they were clean and tucked them in, and stayed up for the night writing out birth certificates and social security cards and anything else they’d need.

 

 _Congratulations_ , Bobby told himself wryly, _It’s two boys_.

 

***

 

This was the middle:

 

Usually, Sam and Dean would celebrate not Halloween, but All Hallow’s Eve. They had pumpkins and trick-or-treating, of course--Bobby dropped them off at actual neighborhoods and taught them lore and helped them make candy apples and popcorn balls--but they also remembered, at least for one night, that they were angels. And Sam whispered a prayer--a hello, a record of the year, whatever--to Lucy, the sister who had taught him so much about the universe before Sam had entered it. He knew Dean prayed to Mike, too. They missed their siblings.

 

Apparently, though, at Harvard you celebrated Halloween. Or at least you did if you had Jess and Brady for a girlfriend and boyfriend, and needed enough alcohol to forget you were wearing a giant Goofy costume. Sam was already planning retaliation when he and Jess stumbled home, but on the other hand they were also slightly tipsy and kissing was more interesting than prank wars.

 

“So,” Jess asked sleepily afterward, curling around him, “How was your first Halloween, Mr. Religious?”

 

Sam yawned and toyed with her hair. “Awesome.”

 

They both drifted off before a slamming noise came from the other room.

 

Sam didn’t have his blade, but if there was one thing Bobby knew it that his sons would need to know how to fight. So he almost took Dean’s head off before recognizing his big brother. “Dean! It’s the middle of the night, what are you doing?”

 

“We’ve got a case.” Dean said. “Remember John?” Sam did--Bobby’s old frenemy, but a Hunter who specialized in demons. “He’s been on a hunting trip. Three days, no contact.”

 

Sam glanced at Jess and sighed. “Uh...can you excuse us?”

 

Jess raised an eyebrow at Dean. Dean raised an eyebrow at her. Again. He insisted on hitting on every single man or woman Sam showed interest in, and by this stage he flirted with Jess just to get a rise out of her.

 

Jess flipped Dean off and went to bed.

 

“Dean, I have an interview tomorrow.” Sam tried not to scold, but he was, he knew it. “My entire scholarship depends on me--”

 

“I know, I know, staying in school.” Dean gave Sam his best puppy eyes. “C’mon. One weekend. You need to keep your hand in, you know…”

 

“Does Bobby know you’re here?” Bobby was going to kick Dean’s ass if he found out, Sam guessed. After he and Dean had fought over Harvard, Bobby had laid down the law: Nothing required Sam, or anyone, to give up their lives, and if Dean kept up with ‘that whining’, Bobby was going to ground him until he was forty.

 

“He’s...kind of torn up about this.” Dean admitted.

 

_...crap._

 

Sam wanted to say no, of course, not in the least because if Bobby found out he’d kick Sam’s ass for not following his dreams. Of course. But Bobby and John went way back, and they were frenemies but emphasis on the ‘friends’ part.

 

“ _One_ weekend.” Sam warned.

 

Dean grinned.

 

***

 

John wasn’t _missing_ , he was _hunting_. Hunting for whatever killed his late wife, and expecting Dean and Sam to start ‘training’, and Dean was buying into it hook, line, and sinker, because if he couldn’t be part of a garrison he could be a Hunter.

 

Sam collapsed into bed exhausted, frustrated, and swearing that the next time he saw John he was going to take a swing at the asshole. He had a life, thank you very much, and it did not involve this sort of thing.

 

And then he saw the fire.

 

***

 

This was the end:

 

Lucifer and Michael stood facing each other.

 

There had been prophecy and machinations, but their chosen vessels had never materialized, so they’d tossed two baby angels out of Heaven, so they could grow vessels with no souls, vessels perfectly suited to carrying angels. And both of them, like good soldiers, had granted permission for their vessels to be used.

 

Castiel, who remembered them, who was their own age, who had tried so fiercely to protect his little brothers, watched in horror, an angel blade to his throat.

 

And then Dean winked.

 

It was _Dean_ , not Michael. It was _Sam_ who smiled, not Lucifer. Because these two were Mike and Lucy, these were the angels that Dean and Sam had remembered every year…

 

But it was Bobby Singer whose voice rang out over the graveyard, even forced to his knees.

 

_Your names are Sam an’ Dean Winchester. You helped me pick ‘em out. You grew up with me--Sam, when you were just about three, you took all the loose stuff you could get your hands on and wrapped it up as Christmas presents for us. I just about busted a gut laughing. Git yer hands offa me, ya feathery idjit--those’re my boys. Dean, you jumped off the roof ‘cause you thought you could fly. Remember that? Oh, shut up! They’re my sons out there! An’ I love you two idjits, so you come back here now and do what you gotta do._

 

They turned, as one, to the open portal to the Cage. They linked hands.

 

And together, they leaped.

 

***

 

Castiel never was able to pull them out of the Cage. He wasn’t able to stay on Earth, with Heaven in chaos, but he never stopped trying.

 

Bobby, tied to mortal spans and mortal life, tried everything. Nothing worked. You couldn’t take an angel out of that Cage, apparently, even Bobby’s sons.

 

Finally, one cold autumn afternoon, Bobby reached to get a jacket from his closet and his hand bumped a shoebox.

 

He didn’t remember what he’d put there, so he took the boxes--two of them--out and opened them up. There, on the top, were the fake birth certificates for Samuel and Dean Winchester, declaring them Bobby’s nephews.

 

Bobby took them out carefully and laid them down.

 

Next were the drawings. Preschool, kindergarten, the handprints in plaster that Bobby hadn’t known how to throw out. Bobby measured his hand against them, and felt tears welling up in his eyes. They’d been so small then, tiny bundles of life he could pick up and hold, sweet and overflowing with questions and solemnity.

 

Bobby set them gently down on the floor.

 

Diplomas from various grades. Awards--music, science, debate club for Sam, and athletic for Dean. The first homework to get an A from them both. Bobby had given them a dollar per A, and the boys had pooled together for a video game console.

 

The remotes were tucked beneath the schoolwork. In Dean’s box, it was nestled in a varsity letter jacket. In Sam’s, it lay in a boy scout’s uniform. Both were neatly folded together. Bobby touched the pin representing Sam’s Eagle Scout award, and remembered how Sam had put together a latchkey program at his school to earn it. He remembered the high school football games and fixed-up cars that seemed to follow Dean like a cologne.

 

He found the college application Sam had sent. The postcards Dean had sent while Hunting with John.

 

And then nothing.

 

Just plaster and paper and some video game consoles.

 

Bobby sat there for a long time with what he had left of his sons. Then he staggered upright and went to get a drink.

  
He raised it to his boys, and then he pulled the trigger.


End file.
